


Phantom Sensation

by softkent (SalazarTipton)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Accidental Outing, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Day Five, M/M, OMGCP 14 Days of Love, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9582941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SalazarTipton/pseuds/softkent
Summary: Nowadays Jack doesn't think about Kent, but he knows Kent thinks about him.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This will be continued, but not regularly. I'm focusing on writing events such as omgcp 14 days of love, the sh love fest, and the check please kink bingo before I fully focus on this. But know more is coming! Enjoy!

They’re sixteen when they first realize. Each time Coach is talking, Kent feels a little flutter along his collarbone. He thinks it’s nothing and goes on like nothing has changed for the whole of practice. He waits for Jack to finish up in the showers after all the guys have left since Jack’s his ride today. Kent himself was sitting in his stall with just his sweatpants and athletic sandals on. He always felt too sticky after a shower to put his shirt back on right away. He lifts a hand to rub below his neck when he feels that scratch again. 

“Oh, hey, Zimms. Just waiting on you, man,” Kent says when he looks up to find Jack standing there in his towel staring at him. “Jack?” He scratches again.

Jack bends down and rubs at his calf muscle. Kent watches him quickly scuttle to his own stall and sit down to examine his calf, his very toned calf. He watches Jack trace over it with his fingertips. 

“You good?” Kent asks. Sure, Jack had some issues, but he’s never scatterbrained. 

Those icey-blues lock on with Kent’s eyes. Kent expected him to look frazzled, worried, something to explain this weirdness, but he was met with the most radiant smile he’d ever seen on Jack’s face. 

“Go look in the mirror,” Jack says barely above a whisper with his grin still in place. 

“The fuck--why?” He asks, but still stands up and walks over to the full length mirror with his eyes still on Jack. 

The spot Kent had felt itching and tingling is red from him rubbing it, but there’s something else too. He hears Jack step up behind him, can see him in the mirror, but is too shocked to take notice until Jack is right behind him. He holds out his hand, tentative. When Kent does move away, Jack traces the words appearing over Kent’s collarbone with the pad of his index finger. 

Kent recognizes the scrawl and the french words. His hand shoots up to touch them as well, bumping into Jack’s hand. Jack traces Kent’s wrist and waits for him to say something. 

_ He’s my soulmate.  _

* * *

Jack tried to cut Kent out of his life after the draft. He tries so hard not to think about him, not to answer his calls. Eventually he learns how to ignore the words near-constantly forming on his calf.

_ I miss you. I love you. How could you do this to me? I just hope he’s okay. He deserves to be okay.  _

Over time the words become less frequent. Jack gets used to wearing pants instead of shorts. He learns to like running leggings because he’s tired of begging people not to mention his soulmate’s thoughts trailing over his skin. It wouldn’t take the media long to figure out just who is Jack Zimmermann’s soulmate if they saw some of the things Kent thinks about.

Sometimes it’s just little things Jack assumes happen during the Aces’ practices like  _ that pass was just like back in Juniors _ or  _ Jack would have gotten there fast enough _ . 

He tries not to read them. Late at night, or more so early in the morning, when Kent could be stumbling to bed drunk, Jack wakes up from the tingle on his calf. He rolls over and tries to push it out of his mind, but sometimes he doesn’t resist. It’s not that he can’t resist--he knows himself better than that; he wants to indulge himself. 

Sure, he may regret it later, but when he’s alone at four in the morning with insomnia and anxiety and whatever else, that little scratch on his leg reminds him that there is someone out there thinking about him. It’s not just someone; it’s Kent Parson, captain of the Las Vegas Aces and two-time Stanley Cup champion. It’s his soulmate. 

Jack tries not to think of Kent and he usually succeeds. On the fourth of July he always thinks of Kent, but that can’t be helped, right? It’s the man’s birthday and all Jack has ever associated with that day are fireworks, shitty pop music, and Kent’s calloused hands on his neck. 

_ Happy Birthday, Kenny _

* * *

Jack spent the majority of the afternoon and early evening in the library trying to find a reference book for his final paper. He gave up after the tenth book he skimmed through gave all of the credit to the same old white guy when it was  _ fact _ that the credit belonged to a woman. He decided to just find better resources online and buy the books himself.

The door slams behind him even though Jack meant to shut it softly. No one yells out about the poor Haus being hurt, so he’s assumes everyone is in their rooms. That is until he hears Holster yell from the living room. 

“Are they ever going to let those shit questions die?”

He rounds the corner to find Holster, Ransom, Shitty, Lardo, and Bitty watching the television. 

“Hey, guys,” Jack greets, a little hesitant. 

“How was the research?” Lardo asks.

“Oh boy did you pick a time to come in, brah!” Shitty says with a wide flourish at the tv screen.

Jack looks at it and notices what it is they’re watching: a live interview with Kent. He’s sitting in his stall, looking like he just took a shower with his hair wet and pushed back from his forehead for once. Jack can still make out some water droplets on his bare shoulders. 

“Parson, must have heard Jack Zimmermann recently signed with the Providence Falconers. How do you feel about facing him next season? Worried about your rivalry starting again?”

Kent looks at the report with a blank stare for a moment and shakes his head. Jack sees he’s trying not to roll his eyes. They never had a rivalry, but try convincing the press of that. Kent opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. He’s a second too late raising his hand to cover his collarbone. 

_ Rivalry is pretty far from-- _

Both the Haus and the room on the television went silent. 


	2. Faded Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being patient about updates! Right now my focus is on two big bangs which will finish in the coming month and shadowhunters au mondays, so updates won't be regluar, but they will be coming eventually when my muses strike. <3 Thank you so much for reading!

Jack feels his calf not just itch, but burn. He’s not sure if the room is still silent over the rush of blood pounding in his ears. Against his better judgement, Jack drops his backpack to the floor and bends down to roll up his pant leg with his eyes still fixed on the screen. He needs to know what Kent’s thinking.

 _Put a damn shirt on!_ appears over Kent’s collarbone as he scrambles to grab his under armour. Jack can see him mouthing something, or maybe saying it to the press, but everything still sounds like he’s swimming. The broadcast cuts short for a commercial break.

Down on Jack’s calf is the bone-deep familiar loops and swirls of Kent’s oddly elegant script he’s only seen in dim late nights for years now: _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I never thought you’d be watching…wait why am I the one apologizing? You--_

He let’s his jeans fall back down and rests his forehead against his knee momentarily. He can’t tell if he feels worse for accidentally watching and unknowingly forcing this issue or letting Kent come to believe there’s no way he’d be watching or thinking about him.

When he finally picks his head back up to look at the room in front of him he sees someone turned off the television and Lardo is sitting next to him on the floor. When he meets her eyes she smiles at him. He returns it without question. They’ve always had a weird mutual unspoken understanding together.

He catches the sound of Shitty’s footsteps coming back down the stairs with enough blankets and pillows in his arms to build his patented pillow castle. He nearly trips.

“I’m good! I’m good and hey, even if I did fall it woulda been hella soft,” Shitty says when he reaches the last step. “Wait, that’d be sick! Full on Princess Diaries Haus surfing.” His eyes glistening with the prospect.

“Not during the season. I don’t want any injuries,” Jack says without even a beat after Shitty finishing his thought.

Shitty throws his precious, fluffy bundle onto the couch and flops down crossed-legged in front of Jack and Lardo.

“So, downstairs is becoming a cushy Netflix zone for the night. You wanna join everybody down here or have some alone time upstairs or chill in the reading room with us or…?” Shitty asks, listing off his options on his fingers.

“Reading room sounds good, Shits,” Jack says after a moment of pondering how he managed to find such great friends.

He can’t imagine someone being so intune with him to know just the kinda night he needs to distract himself from impending doom, let alone his two favorite people setting up their entire house to give him options for the night incase he needs something else. After all these years he really shouldn’t underestimate Shitty and Lardo’s friend skills.

“Pie’s in! We decide on what to watch tonight?” Bitty asks when he walks in wiping his hands off on a dish towel.

“Golden Girrrrrrrls!” Ransom and Holster yell out in unison, bounding down the stairs with Holster’s box collection in hand.

Shitty, Lardo, and Jack leave the guys to their sassy elderly women and head upstairs after burying Bitty in blankets and giving Holster a few good whacks with a pillow. Jack hangs back in his room to dig out a hoodie while the other two pack a bowl and set up tunes out on the roof.

He walks past his Samwell hoodie hanging on the back of his desk chair and kneels beside his bed. Underneath among the dust bunnies, he pulls out a cruddy box with fading sharpie that could have once said “j. zimms” in a script Jack will never forget. His fingers linger over the lid.

He sits there cross-legged, feeling the tingling on his calf stuck in his thoughts with the dusty box resting on his lap for far longer than he planned. Jack clears his throat and shakes his head at himself. When he steps out the window to the reading room with his Samwell hoodie on, it’s tucked back under the bed with none of its contents touched.

Lardo holds out the bowl without saying anything. He takes it as Shitty leans his head on his shoulder and puts an arm around him.

“If you wanna talk, we can. If you just wanna smoke, that’s chill too,” Shitty says, “and if you just wanna cuddle, I am totally up for some brotherly affection, brah.”

Jack picks up the lighter. He takes a long pull and slowly blows the smoke up into the sky. Shitty takes the bowl back and taps it out. Lardo hands him the mason jar full of little baggies.

“I just want to go back an hour and stop this from happening,” Jack says solemnly still focused up on the dark sky and smattering of stars above them.

“Is that ‘cause you didn’t want anyone to know or ‘cause you didn’t want to remember he’s your…” Lardo asks, giving him a look at the end instead of using that damn word: _soulmate_. “I doubt anyone will realize it’s you.”

“Plus, it’s not like they can spend much time theorizing. You remember when the press went after that football player’s soulmate? There were lawsuits, dude. The media’s gotta be real careful,” Shitty adds in as he packs another bowl.

“How are the law school apps coming?” Jack asks.

He’s a little more relaxed listening to them. They’re probably right and it’s such a relief that they _know_ and they aren’t treating him any differently.

“Who knows,” Shitty sighs.

“Come on. You know next year you’re going to be tearing Harvard to pieces. Conservative professors will be quaking in their shoes,” Jack says, putting his arm around Shitty and shaking him a little in a sideways hugs.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you big sap,” Shitty says with a smile.

“Shits, you know Harvard wants you so bad they’ll pay you to go,” Lardo adds. “Nobody can say no to that flow.”

“You’d know,” Jack jokes.

Lardo punches him in the shoulder as they all laugh.

After another hit, this night doesn’t feel any different than all the others they’ve shared up here. Chirps, laughs, and the slight nip in the air are all so familiar. Jack always thought everything would fall apart if anyone knew the truth of his and Kent’s relationship; he’s never been so happy to be wrong.

Lardo heads inside when they can hear yelling coming from downstairs. She gives Jack’s a sympathetic look and squeezes her knee before crawling over to the window. They wait a few moments until they hear Lardo yelling before Jack and Shitty lay back and stare up at the void.

“I just hurt him all over again,” Jack whispers.

“Are you planning on talking to him about all this?” Shitty asks.

Jack blows out a long sigh and shakes his head to himself. “I don’t see what good that’ll do.”

* * *

_Kent turns over to face Jack. He feels the words paint themselves on his skin before Kent opens his mouth, but Jack waits, rubbing Kent’s collarbone until he’s ready to voice his thoughts._

_“No matter what happens during the draft, after or whatever, we’ve got each other, right?” Kent whispers._

_Jack cups his jaw and puts his other hand in Kent’s. “Always.”_

_They fall asleep facing each other, tangled together. Kent doesn’t dream at all, nor does he wake from the stream of thoughts running like a gushing river over his skin--all the thoughts Jack kept to himself and was never ready to voice._

* * *

 

Two hours into laying in bed, waiting to fall asleep, Jack gives up. His calf itches and he knows Kent’s dealing with the same problem though he’s trying his hardest to let his mind go blank.

The Haus is quiet. Everyone went to bed hours ago after Lardo walked back to her dorm. He can hear each rustle of leaves outside, the Chads across the street loudly playing something, yet none of it is enough distract him from the discomfort in his chest and his damn leg.

He reluctantly throws off the covers and slides down to the floor. He reaches under the bed. His jaws tenses when he gets hold of the box, but pulls it out anyway. Gently, he sets the lid to the box next to him and closes his eyes to brace himself.

Inside sits a magazine with Kent Parson on the cover. Beneath it are various notebooks, CDs, and pucks. Jack reaches past it all with a broken determination and pulls out something from the bottom, sending some of the smaller things toppling onto the floor.

The discomfort in his chest only increases when he holds the jersey up in front of him. Jack can’t decide if he wants to hold it or throw it across the room. He flips it over to read “Parson” across the back. A whiff of stale dust makes him glower at it.

Jack’s told himself for years that he left Kent behind--that he wanted nothing to do with him, yet he never returned his jersey from the Q. Instead, he stuffed it in a box along with so many other little things from those days (and some far more recent) and brought it to another country with him so it could live in the dark underneath his bed. Sometimes even Jack couldn’t lie to himself that well.

The weight in his chest--the tense pull of his heavy heart wasn’t anything new, Jack was just used to ignoring it. If he didn’t think about it, he wouldn’t think about Kent. He never had separation illness like some people he’s heard about. Thankfully, Jack tells himself, their separation is normal. A bit of discomfort every once in a while--the body reminding you where you _should be._

Though it’s rare, it is possible for soulmates to get sick when they were apart too long. Nausea, headaches, and dizziness were uncommon, but within the realm of possibility. The horrors stories Jack had read over a few sleepless nights of couples having to break bonds just to live because they were so toxic together sent him into a panic, but the pain never came. He’s still a little suspicious that what he and Kent had wasn’t bad enough for that to happen to them.

A wave of longing paired with the burning of his calf for the hundredth time that night crashes down over Jack. He shuts his eyes tight and balls up the jersey roughly before throwing it across the room. It sadly thunks against a poster and falls to the floor in a puddle of faded blue.

Jack pushes up his sweatpants after a moment of collection his frustrations, steering them away from the realm of panic to see what’s itching at him. _Can’t believe you still have that thing..._


	3. Icy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after so long, i'm back! *throws confetti*

When Jack wakes up, his world hasn’t crumbled. He still has class and practice later. His friends are all still his friends. Them knowing who he’s bonded with hasn’t changed anything in their minds.  _ This might turn out okay _ , Jack lets himself think. He lets tension rise up inside himself for a second, thinking about what Kent must be feeling until he remembers the time. Kent should still be sleeping, thanks to the time difference.

 

Maybe this all won’t go so easily. Opening himself up means he also opened himself up to their bond again. Before, he knew most of his thoughts about Kent didn’t reach him; they got stuck in the barrier Jack built around that part of himself when Kent was drafted. Now it’s like all his work to block him out never happened. The ache in his chest returns, reaching out for someone Jack hasn’t wanted in a long, long time. 

 

He breathes in deep and makes a decision: if he could do it once, he can do it again. Shitty's advice to talk to Kent about all this is pushed aside in favor of just making this all go away again. Jack came to terms with not needing a soulmate, no matter what fate decided, years ago. Just because he slipped up doesn't change that. 

 

Downstairs, Bitty is already up (for once not needing to be dragged out of bed for checking practice) and making them both breakfast. Jack takes the protein shake from him and sets his bag down on the table to put it away in a way so it won't spill everywhere. The cup is meant to stop spillage, but he's never trusted it. 

 

"We don't have to go today," Bitty says before biting into his toast. 

 

"Why wouldn't we? Are you sick?" Jack asks. If he were sick, why would he have gotten up? If he didn't want this today then why was he even down here?

 

"No, it's not that...I just thought, after last night, maybe you didn't get a lot of sleep," Bitty explains without looking at Jack. He busies himself with unplugging the toaster and putting away the whey powder. 

 

Jack's jaw clenches. "I'm fine. Don't make excuses for not wanting to practice. I'll be at the rink if you decide to join," he bites out. He leaves in a rush not looking back at Bitty’s fallen expression. 

 

The grass crunches under his feet from the frost as he makes his way to Faber alone. His nose twinges from the chilly air, but it doesn't bother him. He's too focused on getting to the rink and doing laps to regret not grabbing his hat. Without realizing he's doing it, Jack unlocks the doors and steps into the rink on autopilot. 

 

Stepping out on the ice feels like coming home. The glide, swish, and muscle movements take over his mind, letting him rest if only for just a moment. His calf isn't tingling. His friends aren't shooting him concerned glances. It's just him and the ice. 

 

Skating has, mostly, help Jack calm down over the years and escape his intrusive thoughts--skating on his own without pressure, that is (all those nights breaking into the rink as a teenager with Kent count). Practice is a different beast full of incentive, direction, and expectations. Here looping around the rink for the countless time, Jack has nothing to live up to or work towards. All the matters is gliding forward on his skates as the minutes tick on by. 

 

* * *

 

_ Kent fishes the ring of keys he snagged from the Coach’s office that afternoon out of his pocket and tries a key. The jangle of metal on metal permeate in the quiet air around them. Jack’s bouncing from leg to leg, willing Kent to hurry up and get them out of plain sight.  _

 

_ “Come on, Kenny. Someone’s going to spot us,” Jack says fast and low.  _

 

_ Kent just rolls his eyes and tries the next key. Sure enough, the lock clicks and turns over. Jack shoves his way inside first, making a beeline for the locker room where they stowed their skates in lue of this plan. Kent watches him go before turning back to lock the door behind them. They didn’t need anyone interrupting their time on the ice. Jack especially doesn’t need anyone coming in.  _

 

_ They get their skates and walk out to the gate in silence, and step onto the ice without a word said between them. The only thing filling Jack’s thoughts are the swoosh of his blades cutting through the ice and the wind of Kent zipping on past him in his own warm up. They don’t talk or touch; they just take in the serenity of the dimly lit rink and breathe in the cool air.  _

 

_ Neither of their marks tingle as they make round after round, skating loops into the ice. They don’t think ahead to how people will realize someone snuck in from the evidence left behind on the ice. They don’t think about anything.  _

 

_ Jack’s never felt so at ease, unrestrained in the presence of someone else. The realization blooms in his chest until a sudden snap brings his body to a halt. He looks at Kent for the first time since he got inside. He’s also stopped, sporting wide eyes and the ghost of a smile. Kent eyes him and another jolt goes through his chest.  _

 

_ It’s the first time they understand what people mean when they say the bond is a blend of the physical self and the heart. It’s settled in their chests metaphorically, but if they focus enough, they can feel the tug towards the other line a life line wanting to pull them to safety--to each other.  _

 

* * *

 

His bubble of peace is broken when Bitty opens the doors. Jack doesn’t look over to him. He feels bad for snapping earlier, but can’t bring himself to apologize for it. He’s always been an asshole, he supposes, only exaggerated when it comes to the sport. 

 

Bitty walks over to the bench and starts lacing up his skates without a word to Jack. He’s focused on the music coming from his headphones. Jack wants to be annoyed by him being here, but he by far prefers Bittle wanting to improve to him skirting around Jack’s personal problems. 

 

He circles back around the rink towards the gate and waits. Within a few minutes, Bitty skates out to meet him. Jack gives him a nod, already in captain mode. 

 

“Ready to start?” Jack asks. 

 

“As ready as I ever am to be checked into the boards,” Bitty says with a shrug. 

 

“I’ll try to start you out easy.”

 

Practice goes a little worse than usual. Bitty still flinches each time and even skates out of the way once, forcing Jack to collide with the boards himself. Only twenty minutes in, they’re both feeling bruised and ready to be done with this for the day. 

 

“We’re not getting anywhere right now. Why don’t we hit the showers, eh?”

 

Bitty’s tired smile is all the answer he needs. They head back to the locker room without any fanfare--both just ready to feel the hot water on their bruises already forming. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not going to lie, the next chapter is already half written ;) so i hope you enjoy this bit and get excited for the next part!  
> please let me know what you think! i love interacting with you and talking about where this could be going or what you're thinking about it. thank you so much for reading <3


	4. Tense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two updates in one week?! i know what you're thinking and don't worry. nobody made an evil clone of me and put them to work. i just actually wrote things in a coherent fashion the first time around :D 
> 
> i wanted to show some boring school things because we've all been there and can feel for jack

Jack keeps his head clear of all soulmate-related panicking up until ten minutes into his Contextual Research in History lecture. Despite the name, the course has proved engaging and above snooze-fest levels of tedious...at least until this guest speaker. If he hears the man say another word about regional influences of data, Jack just might stuff his head into his backpack to drown out the noise. 

 

He leans back in his chairs, crossing his leg over his knee in an effort to remain awake. Maybe Bitty had been right about him needing the extra few hours of sleep. Jack had spent the night caught up with Kent’s jersey in his hands and his eyes taking in the stream-of-consciousness scrawling down his calf. 

 

“For example, the societal approach to soulmates has changed over time, but for those held in high regard, the culture’s response may seem more archaic or out of that time. Context isn’t just on aspect of research, but the basis of it. Can anyone think of a relevant example of this today?” Dr. Woodford (or something starting with a W, Jack thinks) asks the class. One of the volleyball players near the door raises her hand. 

 

“It’s like how professional athletes are treated. Last year when a NHL admitted he had a solely-platonic soulmate, the media tried to crucify him. They claimed he’s a poor influence on kids because people tell them they’re going to find their true love and everything, when soul bonds can be more of life partner type deals. He lost a bunch of his sponsors during the whole ordeal,” she says. Dr. Whatever nods his head along with her train of thought. 

 

“Right! Though we as a culture are growing to accept and appreciate non-romantic bonds, this player didn’t receive proportional treatment due to the limelight.”

 

Jack wants to zone out from this discussion, think about practice this afternoon or their game this weekend--anything aside from soulmate talk--but he can’t stop himself from leaning forward to focus on what people are saying. Why couldn’t they be talking about soulmates in government instead of sports? His legs start bouncing. He could leave for the bathroom and just not return...

 

“So kinda how people don’t pester others about visible bonds and marks, but everyone’s freakin’ nuts over Kent Parson’s mark showing during his post-game last night, right?” Someone Jack’s never paid much attention to interjects. 

 

He sinks down in his seat a little and focuses his attention on his notebook in his lap just in case anyone glances back at him at the mention of professional hockey. While usually Jack had no problems about his father and his past at Samwell, people still know. Great, now there’s no way he can leave without gaining the attention of everyone in the room, sparking rumors around campus. The Swallow would probably have a blurb about it on the website by the time for practice. Jack might be starting to regret going to such a small school. People talk (a little too much for his liking). 

 

“I don’t follow hockey myself, so I haven’t heard much about it, but yes. It sounds like it fits the bill. Seeing how we, as a culture and society, react to these celebrities, can you now envision how the military in World War I would respond to, say, bonded soldiers? In ancient rome, relations with fellow soldiers was encouraged. They believed their bonds would make them fight harder on the battlefield.

 

“Knowing what you do about WWI, how do you think those same bonds were handled? See, there isn’t an assumed evolution when it comes to cultures. Many would say we are far behind the Greeks and the Romans in terms of acceptance. This is why we can’t ever assume societal norms, no matter what seems common knowledge about the time--”

 

Jack finally zones out from the lecture having heard this all before. He swallows hard, still trying to rid himself of the lump in his throat from the mention of Kent. His breathing is steady and even until the lightest tingle starts right under where his hand is resting on his jeans. Jack does the quick mental math, realizing Kent’s awake and probably at practice now--or at least with his team. 

 

He can only imagine the kind of fallout Kent must be dealing with from his GM and PR team after last night. Jack lets his mind take him down all the possibilities: Kent getting fined for being “inappropriate,” dodging questions about his soulmate (how long have you known? Who are they? What type of bond is it? etc.), being sent to the team’s bond specialist for assessment, dealing with media frenzies. Oh god, Jack doesn’t want to know the mob of reporters that was probably outside Kent’s home that morning. 

 

His thoughts fade away when the class starts clapping in thanks for Dr….Waterford (that’s it!) for imparting his field knowledge onto them. The professor dismisses them, but encourages people to stay behind and utilize being let out early by asking Dr. Waterford any questions they may have. Over half the class starts packing up to leave before she finishes her sentence--Jack included. 

 

Jack skips out on team lunch at the cafe in favor of locking himself away in his room in an effort to rid the building anxiety from his chest and head by the time he needs to headout for practice. The walk back to the Haus feels longer than usual with this nerves putting him on edge. Each person that passes him feels like they’re judging everything about him and knows about his soulmate. Logically, he tells his brain to calm down and stop being ridiculous, but it doesn’t help dispel the feeling. 

 

The Haus is quiet. Everyone is either out at class or grabbing food. Jack can feel his blank facade crack a little when he confirms he has the place to himself, but still manages to hold himself together as he trudges up the stairs, down the hallway, and closes the door behind himself. He toes off his shoes and climbs into bed with his jeans and hoodie still on. Only when the comfort of his bed settles into him does he allow the building tension within him out in a small, confined sob. Shaking, he breathes himself past the initial wave of emotion. 

 

* * *

 

_ “How many times now have I sat by your side and helped you through this and you still think you need to hide what you’re going through from me?” Kent asks without expecting a verbal response or real answer.  _

 

_ He combs his fingers though Jack’s hair and waits for him to gather himself. No matter how many instances of talking Jack out of a panic attack or helping him calm down, the worry hasn’t gotten any easier for Kent. He won’t voice it, but each time he wonders if this is the time it doesn’t work--if it’s the time he can’t help his soulmate when he’s hurting.  _

 

_ Kent presses a quick kiss to Jack’s temple and thanks his stars that today wasn’t that day. He won’t let himself hope that day won’t ever come. Kent’s proven to himself that given enough time, he’ll always fuck things up.  _

 

* * *

 

Jack curls himself into a protection of his blanket and reaches out to grab his laptop from his bag. He boots it up and reaches under the bed for his power cord. He untangles it from his phone charger with a little bit of a struggle.

 

“Why am I doing this to myself?” Jack asks the empty room out loud. With no one to tell him to stop or remind him why it’s a terrible idea, he looks up the interview from last night and all the fallout relating to it. 

 

The usual contenders are out in full force:  _ Parson love trouble? _ ,  _ Soulmarks in Sports: A Breakdown _ ,  _ Bond affecting play? Parson's lack of points and... _ Jack scrolls through the search results, reading them as fast as he can--hoping the task will stop him from acknowledging the pit in his stomach. Even ESPN is running with a hockey related story:  _ Can thought-bonds lead to cheating? _

 

He tells himself not to do it, he really does, but his fingers type away on their own, ignoring the voice telling him what a bad idea this is. Twitter loads quickly. #ParsonBond is trending. Jack groans before clicking on it. The top result is from Kent himself, which was the last thing he was expecting. He brushes off the thought that maybe he doesn't know Kent as much as he thought--or at least he doesn't know how he's changed over the years they've been apart. 

 

_ KVP90: Pro Tip: no one will replay your wipeout in the 2nd if they have something juicier to talk about _

 

Jack recognizes the picture accompanying it from a meme Holster tried to explain to him last week. Reading through the thread below Kent's post is a bad idea, but he scrolls down anyway. He jumps down the rabbit hole and loses track of how long he's been jumping from retweet to comment to reply. The JackParse discourse is back bigger than ever, from what he can tell. Although he knew it was coming, seeing all these people debate and defend their stance on the rumors still rise up in his throat.

 

_ Buzz...buzzz...buzzzzzz! _ It clicks in his head that he's started dissociating one the fourth ring, realizing what's making the noise. He answers his phone on auto-pilot, not looking at the caller ID. 

 

"Dude, you need to calm yourself down," Kent says after the pause left from Jack's lack of greeting. 

 

"Kenny?" Jack whispers back. 

 

Kent sighs just like he did back in the Q when Jack would say something self-deprecating or quote his dad. "Yeah, Zimms. What's got you so worked up? Gotta say, my shoulder's feeling a little rough, not being used to so much activity, ya know?" Kent says with a small laugh, trying to shrug off the implication that Jack hasn't cared enough to think about him in a long time. 

 

Jack pushes his laptop away and smothers the power button so he won't have to look at the screen to close out of all those tabs. He clears the tightness from his throat. 

 

"Was just reading. Sorry to bother you," Jack says, clipping off his words with a bite he didn't mean to add in.    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyyyy thanks for reading!!!! i'd love to talk in the comments about this or just hear from you! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think in the comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! <3  
> Feel free to come find me on tumblr: [softkent](http://softkent.tumblr.com/)


End file.
